


Datsuzoku

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Bedannibal in Florence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia is wary of their social events, so Hannibal plans an evening just for her.





	Datsuzoku

Another invitation, another ball. Bedelia’s finger traces the elegant gold embossed card. It seems that the Italian scholars spend more time with a drink in their hands than with a book.

“Is something the matter?” Hannibal asks, always attuned to the minutest change in her expressions.

“Is it imperative that we attend?” her eyes shift from the invitation and meet his.

“Are you not enjoying the receptions?” he regards her attentively.

Are you not enjoying _my company_ , the unspoken sentiment behind his words is evident.

“You know I do, Hannibal,” she almost sighs at his constant need for approval.

“What it is then?” he presses on.

“I do not want to spend an evening wondering who will join Professor Soglioto’s fate.”

“The man was _rude_ ,” Hannibal’s logic is hard to dismiss.

“I know that, yet each time you let your temperament take charge, you further endanger our cover,” she pauses,” our _life_ ,” she adds quietly. “It is hardly an enjoyable evening, making sure none of the _rude_ men crosses your path.”

Hannibal’s eyes turn solemn, it is one of these rare moments when he has not merely heard, but also understood her words.

Bedelia leaves him to ponder on their exchange. She enters the bedroom to find an expected addition to the invitation, a new lavish Marchesa gown in striking silver. It is a beautiful gift, yet it seems hollow, like an ornamented puzzle box with an empty centre.

 

A day before the event, Hannibal enters the apartment with a dress wrapped in his arms.

“I already have a gown,” she watches him with caution, as he enters the bedroom.

“This is not for the ball. We won’t be attending.”

“Why?” her suspicion rises by a minute.

“I thought we could do something different. Less formal; just the two of us. I am sure the museum board will not miss us,” he smiles bashfully.

He offers no further information and she does not ask. Part of Hannibal’s charm is the thrill of the unknown.

“I hope it will be to your liking,” he sets the package on her vanity and leaves.

Bedelia unwraps it to revel a simply black dress, a halter neck in the front and a small box with a pair of sapphire and diamond earrings. They are unpretentious, yet Bedelia suspects they cost more than any piece of jewellery he had ever given her. They match the colour of her eyes.

 

The following evening, Bedelia gets ready for their night out. The dress fits perfectly, it always does. She puts her hair up, complementing the cut of the dress, the earrings, and her slender neck. She smiles, looking in the mirror, pleased with the final effect.

“ _La_ _più bella_ _, como siempre_ ,” she turns to notice Hannibal standing in the door. In plain black suit and shirt, he looks very handsome himself. “Shall we?” he offers her his arm. Bedelia wraps hers around his and they make their way downstairs, where a car with a driver is waiting for them.  

The car manoeuvres swiftly amongst the narrow streets of Florence. They stop in front of a small restaurant located in a lane pass the Piazza Santa Croce.

Hannibal gets out first and opens the door for her, she rests her hand in his palm; his grip secure and his thumb brushes over her fingers.

Il maître welcomes them at the door. “ _Buona sera, Dottore Fell_. And this must be your beautiful wife,” he swaps to heavily accented English. “Your words did not do her justice,” he takes Bedelia’s hand and she is relieved when he makes no attempts to kiss it. She turns to Hannibal with a questioning look.

“This is the best restaurant in town. I made sure of it,” he answers the unspoken question.

“He even asked to see our kitchen. Not a request we normally agree to, but your husband is a true connoisseur, so we made an exception,” Bedelia is unsure if _connoisseur_ is the right word, but says nothing.

The man guides them to their table, located in the back of the terrace, a quiet corner with candle-lit lanterns above their head and fresh flowers on the perfectly white table cloth.

“Champagne to start?” he asks with a smile, as if reciting a well-rehearsed line.

“Please,” Hannibal smiles back, only then turns and perceives Bedelia’s troubled expression.

“Are you not happy with the choice of drink?” he asks with genuine concern.

“Champagne makes me _lightheaded_ ,” she admits reluctantly. The implication remains unvoiced, they both know she does not like to lose control.

“You do not need to worry. I am here to look after you. And this is a celebration.”

“What are we celebrating?” the tone of her voice remains sceptical.

“You,” his eyes flick downwards, “ _us_ ,” he looks back at her, gaze warm and tender.

Heat rises to Bedelia’s cheeks and she says nothing.

Il maître returns and presents the bottle; 1973 Moët & Chandon Brut, the label reads. Not a vintage found in every restaurant, Bedelia thinks, sensing Hannibal’s hand in that particular arrangement. She smiles at the thought and accepts a glass. Bright and amber hue with playful bubbles, Bedelia tastes the fruits with an acidic finish. It is superb and Bedelia feels her reluctance washing away further with every sip.

She does not know whether it’s the alcohol or the warm, fragrant air, but by the time their primo arrives, she feels famished. She bites into her mushroom gnocchi with gusto, soft with a melting, creamy walnut pesto, and a peppery finish of arugula. It is not a surprise, Hannibal’s choice of restaurant was excellent.

He watches her with a smile and orders another bottle.

Halfway through their secondo, roasted pigeon for him, sea bass for her, a noise from the street reaches their ears. A group of street performers, returning from a day’s work at the tourist filled piazzas, including two musicians and a juggler pass by. They play and laugh as they walk. Utterly crass, Bedelia thinks and is surprised when she sees Hannibal looking at them with a smile.

“I was not aware you enjoyed this type of _performances_ ,” she voices her puzzlement.

“Street performers are often undervalued. It is not an easy vocation, particularly since the audience can be _demanding_ ,” he looks at her knowingly.

“High standards are required to achieve perfection. A concept you are inspiring to in every way,” the rebuke pours swiftly from her lips.

“You are correct,” he takes her hand and kisses her affectionately,” still, one cannot ignore the skills required here.”

Hannibal approaches one of the waiters and he returns shortly with three oranges. Bedelia watches in astonishment as he gets up, weighting the fruit in his hands, and begins to toss and catch them, keeping them in motion. He keeps his eyes on her, as the oranges circle in the air.

Bedelia’s hand covers her mouth, she’s surprised and not sure how to react. Of all the things, she has expected to witness behind his veil, she has never imagined seeing _this_.

Hannibal continues to juggle the oranges and then catches them one by one and takes a graceful bow. There’s an applause from the other patrons of the restaurant. He turns and bows to them as well, before returning to his seat.

Bedelia remains silent, staring at him with wide eyes. “I was not familiar with that talent of yours,” she finally speaks.

“I acquired many skills during my time in Paris. I have not done this in years. This could have been a failure. I guess I was attempting to impress you,” he smiles shyly and takes a sip of his drink.

“You did. With everything. This is wonderful,” she leans in and kisses him. Some of the guests might still be looking at them, but for once, she does not mind. She tastes the champagne on his lips, which bring out its sharp-tasting flavour, turning it into an intoxicating fusion. Her hand rests on his chest and she can feel his rapid heartbeat. For all his meticulous planning, there are still things he cannot control. Like his feelings for her. She rests her forehead against his and smiles.

 

Bedelia does not know how many hours have passed. The air turns colder as the evening fades to night, but she does not notice. She is warmed by the champagne and by Hannibal’s attention.

They remain the only people in the restaurant, Hannibal must have arranged for the late opening. Bedelia is not aware of the full effect of the alcohol until she stands up and the world before eyes turns to haze. She is grateful for Hannibal’s arm supporting her. He appears as intoxicated her, yet his grip remains strong.

The car arrives as soon as they leave the restaurant and Hannibal helps her in. Bedelia lets her head rest on his shoulder and the city outside is nothing more than a blur of golden and red lights.

They arrive back, dismiss the driver, and make their way to the apartment, unsteady feet and dizzy heads. She should feel silly, yet somehow, she feels _exhilarated_. Hannibal finds the key in his pocket and makes an attempt to open the door. His clumsiness may be unbecoming, yet is utterly endearing and Bedelia laughs. Hannibal looks at her with pretended hurt, but laughs as well. He finally manages to unlock it, yet does not enter, his gaze fixed on her.

Suddenly, strong arms pin her to the wall as his lips claim hers. Bedelia’s moan is swallowed by his ravenous mouth. A hall table situated on their right rattles and the vase of flowers placed on top of it shakes.

“Hannibal- “she gasps between the kisses,” The neighbours.”

“I am not concerned with the neighbours. I am only concerned with you,” beneath the alcohol induced gloss of his eyes, his irises are dark with desire and lust, for her alone, “And your pleasure.”

His lips move from her mouth to the sensitive side of her neck, as though to emphasize his statement. A loud moan escapes her mouth before she can stop it. Surprising herself, she places her hands on his chest and turns, pushing him against the wall and pressing herself against his body. The vase falls off the table and shatters on the floor in a puddle of water, glass, and lilies. Neither of them notices.

It is Hannibal’s turn to groan as she tastes him, marking him with her lips, tongue, and teeth. He wraps his arms securely around her and lifts her with new-found steadiness. She knows he would never drop her. A sudden surge of tenderness washes over her, as he carries her through the half-open door.

Their night is far from over as Hannibal pours his painstaking adoration over every inch of her skin and every curve of her body. Bedelia is louder than she has ever been, other tenants be damned.

 

The next day Bedelia wakes up to pounding sound of the anticipated headache; until she realises that the sound is in fact church bells. It is midday and she has overslept. The warm chest, currently serving as her pillow, tells her that Hannibal has as well.

When was the last she had allowed herself to overindulge? She does not remember, perhaps never. But she does remember the events of the evening. She shifts slightly and smiles, feeling the delicious aches from last night’s tryst. Her eyes open ever so slowly, as to avoid the bright light, and she looks up at Hannibal. His face must mirror hers, eyes slightly open, but a broad smile on his lips. Bedelia smiles back and closes her eyes again.

Hannibal’s fingers gently touch her scalp and he runs them through the length of her hair. It’s pleasant distraction from the impending headache and Bedelia sighs with content, nuzzling his shoulder.

The puzzle box has opened revealing something unexpected; she was never looking for it, yet she needs it more than anything.

**Author's Note:**

> Datsuzoku is Japanese for escape from daily routine, to live unbounded by convention, which is pure bedannibal.  
> I really wanted to see more of them enjoying their life in Florence. Hope it's not too silly.
> 
> You know where to find me, if you have a prompt or a question.


End file.
